There were small things,
unnoticed by everyone but me,
that he did.
A secret communication
between us and us alone.
He hid his feelings behind stupidity
even though he had intelligence
enough to deceive.
Ours was a mysterious bond.
He seemed cruel and cold
and I seemed too forgiving and sweet.
Everyone thought me a saint,
patience was a given gift of mine.
He ran wild as if he were a young child
and when he returned from the days and nights
of rambunctious fancy flights
I would hold him and warm his bones.
I’d protect him from the perils
he sought out to find in his every indiscretion.
I smiled when he told me the stories he loved to tell.
He relished in the absurd.
He hid behind the black comedy
of the adolescence he knew and hid
under his mother’s insanity,
claiming no responsibility for his actions.
His shoulder, small and angled,
shrugged off every accusation of guilt.
His eyes danced with the devil
behind the shadows where he found peace.
He’d place endless secrets in my care
and I cherish them all and keep
them locked away with all the battered bruises
of our spoiled lives.
I wasn’t his.
I wasn’t his mother.
I wasn’t even necessarily his friend.
I was his lover.
He seemed to keep everybody at bay.
Never allowing the truth of himself
to be exposed to the harsh weather
outside his comfortable abrasive skin,
his cactus exterior sharp yet soft
and somehow perfectly balanced.
I loved him,
and in moments of grief,
moments of confusion,
he showed through.
Small gifts of nothing significant
to anyone other than me showed he cared.
What those were are mine
and I selfishly hoard them inside my memories
of what was him
and what defined me.
And as much as I miss him,
I love the memories more.